The Sun Will Set for You
by LadyAbbith
Summary: After the Androids attack and everyone is lost in battle, Bulma has to figure out how to pick up the pieces in her life and move on. Accompanying "mirror fic" to "The Darkest of Your Days." Mirai Timeline. Songfic. Oneshot.


**A/N: My triumphant return to writing! I haven't sat down to write for enjoyment for _years_-I really did forget just how much I missed it. Anyway, this is my first time writing B/V fanfiction (or any DBZ fanfiction, really). Wanted to try something new and different that wouldn't completely cripple me, so I started off with a songfic oneshot. Obviously, italicized lyrics are Linkin Park's "Shadow of the Day," and I don't own DBZ. Also, the cover art is not mine- you may find the artist's work here: _ ay-vb. sakura. ne. jp/ _top .ht ml _ (just make sure all the spaces are taken out- FFNet wouldn't let me post the whole link, so I had to space it apart.) She is fantastic! I may or may not do an accompanying oneshot fic to this from Vegeta's point of view later on-we'll see. Let me know what you think. Hope you like!**

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The Sun Will Set for You

_I close both locks below the window_

_I close both blinds and turn away_

Bulma watched as the rain streaked down the windowpane of her bedroom window. It was really beginning to pour outside, and she watched as the various dull shades of grays, greens, and blues blurred together in the water-stained glass, flowing and diluting into one another. She folded her arms and cupped a hand to her mouth as she studied the storm outside. The trees were tossing restlessly in the wind as the rain spattered on the leaves, and one tree caught her eye in particular. The willow tree in the back yard swayed to the Earth's natural music, and Bulma could just make out the carved stone underneath as the branches moved.

Something about the downpour seemed to pacify her tormented soul—it had been six months since he had died, and not a day went by that she didn't feel the excruciating pain left by his loss. Of course, she was smitten with his good looks at first—his features were undeniably handsome. But over time, he grew to be much more than a pretty face to her; he was her lover, her child's father, her everything. She never knew what she'd been missing until he was finally _there, _in her life. Sure, he was a complete jackass at times (at this she smiled feebly at the thought), but it was the intensity he brought to anything he cared about that truly made her fall for him. He was nothing if not dedicated one hundred and ten percent to his priorities, and even if he'd never admit it, Bulma knew his new family was a priority.

The torrential rain outside drummed against the pane, and echoed the emptiness she felt inside—as though she could cry and cry, until nothing was left—until she was completely used up, but would continue to weep because there was no other option. This was the only thing that she had to offer as an apology for still being alive—for going on without him.

Bulma realized that the stains of tears were on her cheeks again, stains that seemed all-too-permanent, before dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. She shook her head a little, trying to compose herself. She had a little boy that needed tending to. Taking one last look at the resonant portrayal outside, Bulma turned the locks on the sill until they clicked before pulling the cord to loosen the blinds. She then turned and headed off to check on her son.

_Sometimes solutions aren't so simple_

_Sometimes goodbye's the only way_

In the days that immediately followed his passing, Bulma worked diligently, day and night, to find some way to bring him back. There had to be some way. There just had to be. When Piccolo was gone, of course, the Dragon Balls had disappeared with him, so there was no hope of wishing anyone back with them. But Bulma knew that if she could just determine the location of New Namek, she could travel to the planet, beg for the use of their Dragon Balls, and wish Piccolo back first and foremost, so that Earth's Dragon would live once again. However, this plan proved fruitless; no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many all-nighters she pulled, no matter how many new discoveries she plotted—she could not place the Namekian coordinates. It was as if the colony had completely disappeared off the grid. If she had had her father's help, she was sure that the two of them could do it together—but he had died of lung cancer a year before the Androids came. She and her mother, of course, did grieve for him, but after some time, did manage keep going without him. Her mother, in particular, began to smile again after some time, and started to get back to the things she enjoyed. She was out shopping, a hobby she lived for, when the Androids first struck the town. Bunny never made it home.

No, she was absolutely on her own now. And if she wanted him back, she was the only one left who could find a way. When she couldn't plot the location of Planet Namek, Bulma resorted to more _biological _methods based on what she could find of Dr. Gero's research. Maybe she couldn't bring back the warriors from the dead, but she could grow new bodies for them and, God willing, maybe he would allow their souls to be reincarnated in these bodies. It was a desperate option that bordered on insanity, and terribly risky, she knew, but the only option she felt she had left.

It didn't work, either. By the time Bulma managed to collect enough DNA to begin the process, the tissues were already long dead and destroyed beyond any useable means. Her spirit broke then; in a fit of rage, frustration, and despair, Bulma screamed, crying and thrashing, throwing anything and everything she could find close to her at the wall. She fell to the floor as the sobs quaked through her body. It was then that the truth had finally hit her like a brutal slap to the face: the warriors—he—he was gone, and he wasn't ever coming back.

_And the sun will set for you_

_The sun will set for you_

_And the shadow of the day_

_Will embrace the world in grey_

_And the sun will set for you_

She still remembered with painful clarity the day they buried him in the ground. The sky was overcast and melancholy; it was a pale, lifeless grey that seemed to consume every glimmer of hope in the world. The slightest sprinkles of rain began to fall from the sky, but it never did rain in full. Like her, the sky seemed to have nothing left to give. Still, Bulma clung to her black umbrella with one hand, her little boy in the other, forcing herself to keep it together. She had decided a spot under the willow tree would be best; it was where she always used to find him, sitting in its bows and brooding over whatever was on his mind at the time. Gohan had helped to dig the grave, and after she allowed baby Trunks to say goodbye to a father he would never know, she handed the boy and umbrella to the young man so she could whisper her own tearful farewells before he lowered him into the ground.

There wasn't a day that went by in the months to come that she wouldn't visit him under that tree, if only just for a few moments. She had had his gravestone designed herself—though it had taken a great deal of time for her to translate (from what little he had actually taught her of his language), she had had it designed when she thought she finally gotten it right: "Vegeta—Fallen Prince of the Saiyans." Some days, she would stay as long as she possibly could, listening to the birds chirp in the trees as she lay on the grass next to him. She would stay until she could hear the distant wails inside the house—cries that meant her baby boy had woken from his nap, and cries that meant, no matter how much she longed to crawl into the grave with him and go to sleep forever, she still had someone who depended on her. With a sigh, she would get to her feet, dust herself off, and walk back inside to find Trunks something to eat.

_In cards and flowers on your window_

_Your friends all plead for you to stay_

In the beginning, Bulma was inconsolable the days after his burial. Nothing really mattered anymore. Instead of being her normal, undefeatable and fiery self, Bulma stayed in bed for days, doing little more than sleeping or crying. It didn't matter to her that she had a little boy that needed her undivided attention—she just couldn't force herself to stay strong for the both of them. She could barely even _look _at Trunks, with a face that so closely resembled his father's. Therefore, she simply went through the motions with her baby, and even eventually hired a nanny to help look after him. The woman was more caring and understanding than Bulma ever cared to realize; she would not only watch after Trunks, but would make sure the rest of the house was in order as well. She kept to herself, mostly; the only time she bothered Bulma was to bring her something to eat or check on her. Usually, she found Bulma asleep, clinging desperately to a pillow, so she would leave her be. The girl would leave letters, cards, and other mail for the heiress on the table next to the window before closing the door behind her.

Bulma would drift between consciousness and sleep, a faint motherly voice nagging at her periodically like a dull buzz in the back of her brain. _Shouldn't you check on your son?_ The overwhelming sadness would rush over immediately after, quieting any voice of reason as she succumbed to the void inside of her. _Your son_—yes, she had a little boy—a little boy who would grow up never knowing the man his father was. She would have to raise him by herself. Is this what Chi Chi felt like? Knowing that her husband was gone, that she was left to care for their little Gohan alone? No, she decided, it wasn't. Because somewhere, in the back of their minds, everyone knew Goku would eventually come back.

But this time, there were no Dragon Balls to count on. Goku wasn't coming back; _he _wasn't coming back. She was alone. Bulma hugged the pillow tighter, letting the tears fall as sobs racked her body. She cried herself back to sleep.

She sighed softly into her pillow as strong arms wrapped around her midsection from behind. His hand caressed lightly over her stomach as he buried his face between her neck and shoulder, breathing her in. Bulma allowed herself to melt into his chest, reveling in his warmth. He was always so _warm. _After a few moments of just listening to one another breathe in the quiet of their bedroom, Bulma broke the comfortable silence.

"Please don't go," she whispered almost inaudibly. "I miss you so much when you're gone. Just stay here with me."

He said nothing, but she felt his arms tighten around her slightly. "Will you still be here when I wake up?" No answer ever came. Instead, she breathed in as he trailed light kisses along her bare shoulder before immersing his face in her hair.

Bulma could feel the first rays of sunlight through her bedroom window, stinging her eyes through their closed lids. As her eyes fluttered open, she could swear she heard him murmur her name softly, could feel his warm breath against her ear as he said it. She turned over onto her back to look next to her, but the bed was empty. She frowned in disappointment; of course it was. He was gone. He was never there to begin with. Bulma rubbed at her eyes tiredly while yawning and scratched the back of her head. It was explainable enough; she missed him so terribly that she was now having full-blown hallucinations in her semi-conscious state. She brought her hand in front of her and looked down at her palm, eyebrows furrowing as she studied it. What she _couldn't_ explain was the lingering remnants of (what seemed to be) tears on her fingertips.

_Sometimes beginnings aren't so simple_

_Sometimes goodbye's the only way_

The normal sound of keyboard keys clicking away feverishly and echoing off the walls was absent from Bulma's spacious laboratory. Instead, she sat staring blankly ahead, lost in thought with her hands steepled in front of her. The light from the cursor on the screen flashed monotonously across her face, obviously forgotten, but nevertheless awaiting her next prompt. After a moment, she rubbed her face vigorously and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the tinge of a migraine forming. Opening the desk drawer to her left, Bulma began to rummage around for some aspirin, but stopped when her fingertips grazed over a forgotten photograph. It was poking out from underneath some schematics, letters, and receipts—she wouldn't even have known it was there if it wasn't sticking haphazardly out of the stack. Curious now, she lifted the papers and pulled the picture out in front of her. She smiled, heart breaking, when she saw what it was.

It was a photo taken the day she had received recognition for her contributing work to the Space-Time Continuum Theory—days before the Androids had attacked. In celebration of her efforts, her mother had thrown a magnificent party, to which all of her friends were invited. There she was, sitting at the picnic table with her food untouched as she played with Trunks, allowing him to stand on the table as she held his wrists for support and cooed at him, smiling. Her proud Prince was sitting next to her, caught in mid-bite as the camera flashed. Though there was no doubt he was thoroughly enjoying his food, he had part of his intense concentration divided from it as he watched them curiously, staring sideways at them as he hovered over his plate. Bulma knew his attention was rarely diverted from _anything, _much less eating,and the fact that he was always watching them—his family—gave her warm and fuzzy feelings in her chest and stomach. It was a photo that never failed to make her smile. She flipped the photograph over and gasped when she saw the writing on the back, dropping the photograph on the floor.

After a moment of stunned silence, she picked it up, studying the two simple words written in elegant handwriting—"Keep going." It was unmistakable; the words were _his_ handwriting—Vegeta's. But how? He had never known about this photo because she'd never had it developed until after he had died. She wiped absently at her eyes after she noticed a teardrop fall onto the picture. It didn't matter. Somehow, some way, he was still here, still watching over her and Trunks. Oh god—Trunks—what was she even _doing?_ She had been so lost in herself and her grief the past six months that she hadn't even been a proper mother to her only child. She had hired someone else to stand in her place so she wouldn't have to deal with it, for pity's sake. Vegeta was right; she had to pull herself together for the sake of their son and keep going. She had to get back in the regular swing of things she used to do before; she had to start being herself again.

And to do that, she would have to find a way to continue on without him.

_And the sun will set for you_

_The sun will set for you_

_And the shadow of the day_

_Will embrace the world in grey_

_And the sun will set for you_

Two weeks later, Bulma was sitting at the dining room table next to her little boy in his booster seat. He banged his hands on the table as he chanted some made-up song, grabbing handfuls of chicken and shoving them into his mouth. Bulma sighed and then smiled as she saw the mess he was making all over the table and floor.

"Here, baby, don't you want to try to use your fork?" she coerced, handing him the utensil. She was met with a glare that was abundantly familiar, making her laugh. "Sorry, Trunks, but even young princes have to learn not eat like wild animals."

He took the fork from her begrudgingly and began to eat, the scowl never leaving his face. Bulma's smile became a little more strained when she thought of the man from which he had inherited that scowl—aside from his hair and eye color, her son looked _exactly _ like his father. Perhaps that was why she had been unable to care for him for so long; with every day that passed, he was a constant reminder of all that she had lost. Even from a boy that was barely over a year old, Trunks's eyes held a bit of Vegeta's intensity, which made her feel like he was reading into the very depths of her soul.

She shook her head as Trunks banged his plate on the table, indicating he wanted more to eat. "Trunks, what have I told you about that?" she sighed, taking the plate from him. "We say 'more, please.'"

"More, peease," he echoed, clapping his hands as she got up from the table to cut more chicken pieces onto his plate. No, she thought, she wouldn't ever see those eyes again in _this_ lifetime, but maybe, just maybe, she could find a way that she wouldn't have to go through this again in another lifetime. It was time she got back to her research. Then maybe, when he was old enough, she or Trunks could take necessary actions to make things different elsewhere. That time's Bulma might then still have her mate by her side, and their son wouldn't have to grow up living in fear. In another life, she could find peace—and by knowing that, maybe she could eventually find peace in this one, too.

_And the shadow of the day_

_Will embrace the world in grey_

_And the sun will set for you_

Bulma lay under their tree next to Vegeta's resting place on a beautiful sunny, breezy day. She sighed in contentment, eyes closed, as she reflected on the day's events thus far. She had been working to bring the physical evidence of her additions to the Continuum Theory to fruition for years, and finally, after endless days of pulling all-nighters, of falling asleep at her desk, of going without meals so she could test her newest tweaks to the model—she had done it. Her time machine finally existed, and the best part—it actually _worked._

Tomorrow morning, Trunks would finally go back in time to deliver the antidote for Goku's virus. He would explain all that had transpired in their timeline, and with any luck, they could change the future of this one. With prior knowledge of the Androids' appearance, they could train and prepare for the upcoming battle, and perhaps with that preparedness, families wouldn't be torn apart.

She ran her hands through the soft grass underneath her before folding them behind her head, her thoughts drifting to the past. Some days, when he wasn't consumed with the thought of training to defeat his precious "Kakarrot," Vegeta would lie under this tree with her as they forgot the world together to just be in the moment. He would never reach for her, but would never object as her hand graced over the grass to place itself in his. They would lie there quietly, listening to the birds flying overhead as the wind rustled the leaves softly. This was as close as she could get to doing that now, and it was oddly very satisfying.

She began to drift off, unclear of whether she was dozing or in deep reverie as she remembered all of the times they spent together. Vegeta was never an overly affectionate person, but perhaps that was why his small gestures where the two of them were concerned convinced her that his love was there, and it was genuine. He never called her beautiful or showed any romantic gesture, but Bulma knew that it was when he called her things like "ugly," "lazy," or "fat" to get a rise out of her that he showed how much he cared—especially with that smirk that was as maddening as it was heart-melting. She also missed his wonderfully dry sense of humor. Although no one else they knew ever really was able to see it, Bulma knew him well enough to catch it when it was there. He was never as much of a jerk one hundred-percent of the time as he wanted the other warriors to believe he was. No, underneath the seemingly endless layers of hardened exterior was the man Bulma fell desperately in love with—that she was still in love with to this day, years after he was gone.

Perhaps what she missed the most, though, were the nights that she would snuggle close to him in the bed they shared. She missed his warmth and the way he would press himself against her, melting into her. Though he would never tell her that he loved her or how much he cared, Bulma could feel it in his touch. She missed their nights of intimacy more than anything, knowing that she would never be as close to another person again as she felt when she was with Vegeta.

_And the shadow of the day_

_Will embrace the world in grey_

_And the sun will set for you_

"Mom, do you know where I left my katana? I can't find it!" she heard Trunks call from inside.

Bulma smiled and sighed, getting slowly to her feet and dusting herself off. Misplacing things was not at all like Trunks, but she knew all-too-well how nervous her teenage boy was about tomorrow. The time machine had done well during test runs, but still, time travel was no small task at hand. Bulma also knew how nervous Trunks was about meeting the rest of the Z warriors, particularly his father, although he'd never admit it aloud. She chuckled to herself—_so_ much like Vegeta. How her little boy could inherit so much from a man he had never really met, she would never know. She only wished she could go with her son, to see Vegeta one last time. The machine was barely big enough for one person, however, and it would've been much too confusing and risky for everyone involved if she were to show up. No, Trunks would go instead, since no one would likely recognize him as well as they would if she had piloted the machine herself. It was probably all for the best—she was getting too old for such adventures anyway, and at the end of it all, one day with her Prince would never be enough to satisfy her need for him in her life.

"I thought I saw it in the corner of your room, next to your bed!" she called back, taking one last look at the gravestone next to her. It had been so long since she had seen Vegeta, but she still remembered everything about him as clearly as if she were in the moment again. Maybe time didn't heal all wounds, but given enough of it, time did allow those wounds to be bearable, no matter how deep the scars ran. Healed or not, she knew everything would turn out alright in the end. "He _is _so much like you, after all," she whispered down at the polished marble. "I know he's going to save us all. And you know what? I'm going to be okay, too." She kissed the marble before turning to walk away, walking a few paces before she stopped, turning her head to the side. "Thank you for helping me to keep going, Vegeta."

The wind picked up, billowing the willow's leaves almost in response, as she continued to walk back inside.


End file.
